


A Meeting Among Magicians

by 60sec400



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Merlin (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Magic, Merlin is cryptic, Strange is in for some fun, Strange meets Merlin, channeling some Kilgarrah, identity theft, what really is magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 10:33:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14042337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/60sec400/pseuds/60sec400
Summary: Jonathan Strange is in Spain when he meets a fairly peculiar individual going on about a stolen identity.





	A Meeting Among Magicians

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many other things to update, lol. Enjoy!  
> I own nothing!

The man stood some ways away underneath one of the Spanish trees with his hands clasped behind his back. He was young, dark hair like a Spaniard but with the paleness of an Irishman. The moonlight was grey and faded behind the clouds and he stood straight still like the tree he was under. Strange glanced about him, hoping that there were no unpleasant surprises awaiting him should he approach the odd man. Most of the soldiers milled about, focused on their own whims and delights, or on the brooding outlooks of war. Advancement from the French was always a worry. But the man in front of Strange did not look like a Frenchman nor did he appear to be any threat that Strange himself couldn’t deal with.

            He hesitated only a moment before he strode forward, looking to maybe confront the man about his current place among the Englishmen. The figure did not move as Strange approached, the rocks slipping beneath his feet, and yet he stood like a grisaille statue. Torches illuminated his side.

            “You, sir,” Strange said, approaching the man and reaching out to grab his shoulder.

            A hand rose to stop him and instantly Strange froze. The man turned. His face and nose were long and sharp. Intelligent blue eyes looked back at him through dark lashes. His dark hair gleamed blue in the moonlight.

            “I am here,” the man said, his accent strange and unplaceable, “to rectify a case of stolen identity.”

            Strange lowered his hand, glancing the man up and down. He wore anything a respectable gentleman would wear in England. Maybe a little worn, or torn, clearly loved and worn after bought many years ago, but respectable and appropriate nonetheless. There is something eerily strange about it, magical almost, but not like Mr. Norrell. More like the trees of the Spanish forest or the rocks on the shore. Of the Earth, teeming with just _something_.

            Strange was barely an arms-length away, and hardly several meters away from any of the soldiers, but he and the man appeared as if they were a great distance farther from anyone else. They had been transplanted and, yet, were still within the same realm of space as the same air he’d been breathing before.

            “I see,” Strange said, his hand still hovering in some strange place of in-between being relaxed and reaching out. “Well, I would say that perhaps you should take it upon the Lord, sir. As you can see, I am hardly the one to discuss a case of stolen identities.”

            “Yes, you do see, sir, that you would be wrong about that as it is you who has done the stealing,” the man said, rocking back on his worn heels.

            Strange furrowed his brow. “I do not go by anything other than my given name.” He paused as he looked the man up and down again. “Are you, by chance, a magician?”

            The man let out a hallow laugh, and though he threw back his head as he did so, the action did not match the sound. Strange looked about briskly, but no one seemed to notice the man’s coarse laughter. It sounded tired, and a little harsh. And Strange did not find what he had asked quite funny at all. It was, nowadays, a fair question. Although he had never run into another magician other than Mr. Norrell, perhaps because they were the only two notable magicians in England. And were, quite respectively, bringing magic _back_ for a reason.  

            “No,” he said as his laugh died, “I am no magician. I am something much, much better.”

            “So you do magic, then, sir?” Strange asked. “I know of no magicians—.”

            “I have stated my truth,” the man said, “I am no magician. Though I am open always to discuss magic. Perhaps have you somewhere to sit?”

            He gestured around them, to the bustling but tired soldiers and the torches swinging in a winter wind. Strange glanced about again. Still, no one paid them any mind. Clearly, this man was _some_ sort of magician. He had _some_ sort of magic. But the manner of what had yet to be discovered. He glanced back at the man peculiarly.

            “I thought you were here to discuss stolen identities?” Strange asked.

            The man moved forward, past him, beyond the soldiers and into the arches of the ranch they had stolen from the French only a few days before. Strange hurriedly followed, his mind thinking of spells and things to perhaps defend himself with. But he is respectable. A gentlemen. He should not be thinking of spells to harm anyone with.

            The man seems to find a suitable place to sit, and plops down rather haphazardly onto a crate of gunpowder. Strange follows closely behind, but no one pays him any mind even as he sits down and watches them all mill about. He is surprised, in the back of his mind, that no one has come to him with some request from the Lord to move something or raise another thing or do something that his magic isn’t meant to do.

            “You are a learned man?” Strange asked.

            The man looked out over the other men and the other people around them. His eyes only focused on something for a second before flitting to another thing.

            “More so than I was born to be,” the man replied, “but that’s another matter. You are, I can see, as well. You can read.”

            “I have to read spells,” Strange said, “I have to read and write letters to my wife.”            

            The man nodded as if this made sense. “Yes, spells, true.”

            Strange stared at the man, his raven hair and blue eyes. He leaned forward, lowering his voice to nothing but a hushed whisper. In the distance, some soldier yells.  “Are you the Raven King?”

            The man finally looks to him, eyes shrouded in something that Strange cannot identify. He glances Strange up and down, just like he had done to the man before. “I am much more favorable,” the man said.

            “So, no, is your answer, sir,” Strange replied.

            “Yes,” the man said, and then grinned. “I am a learned man. I am no magician. I am not the Raven king, and I am far more favorable. And I am here for a stolen identity.”

            “Mine,” Strange said, questioning. He leaned back then, away from the Not-Magician-More-Favorable man.

            “Ah, mine,” the man corrected, a small smile gracing his face. “I believe you have stolen mine.”

            “Yours!” Strange exclaimed, but no one moved at his raising voice.

            “Mine,” the man repeated. He leaned back into the other crates, relaxed. “What sort of magic have you seen, Mr. Strange?”

            Strange thought back to all the magic he’d read, but that was not seeing. Seeing and reading were different things, although they were often connected in other ways. He had seen much magic. He had done much magic. But it was as if someone had asked a favorite quote or line from a book— suddenly, you could not remember any book you had ever read. It was he now, not remembering any magic he had ever seen, nothing that he could place as his favorite or call upon on his memory to be impressive. He looked up through the arches, through the branches of the trees, and toward the moon.

            “I have seen… I’ve heard a woman raised from the dead. I have made a road from rocks. I’ve spoken to trees,” Strange replied, omitting more truth than he was willing to admit.

            “A woman raised from the dead?” the man repeats in interest. “That is not possible.”

            “I’ve seen her,” Strange replied. “I’ve heard her speak.”

            The man shook his head. “That is not possible. A life for a life. The dead cannot be raised, something must be taken in return. That woman is not herself, if she is even that.”

            Strange does his best not to think on that. He lovely wife, his Belle, had been writing all manner of strange stories about the now undead Lady Pole. He did his best not to dwell on them, but it seemed even now, far from her letters, and within a stranger setting, the subject arose.

            “Magic is capable of much,” he said, “I’ve seen it.”

            “As have it. You’ve been granted a gift, Mr. Strange. Explore it as much you can,” the man said, smiling his small smile again. He tapped his knees with his long fingers, brows brushed together in thought.

            Strange takes another look at the man in front of him. “What manner of creature _are_ you?” This thing emits magic that is so palpable that Strange can _feel_ it on his soul. It’s warm and overpowering, like the sun on the first warm day of spring. Warm and here and real.

            “I,” the creature said, “am a creature of magic.” He doesn’t looked offended by the word, but did appear sad. His emotions are trained on his face and he looked over at Strange like he was a little lost.

            “I do not understand,” Strange replied after a moment, brow furrowing.  

            The creature smiled. “That is to say, I am of magic. While you use it, channel it, wield it. I am magic. I, my dear Mr. Strange, am Magic. Whatever powers that the Earth has granted you, tread hesitantly. For many dangers await you. Do not assume you and Mr. Norrell are the only learners of magic, sir. I fear that, given the test, you would be out matched.”

            Strange sat up, his body tense and defensive. “I do not understand. I have brought souls back from hell, I have overturned ships!”

            “And yet,” the creature of Magic said calmly, “this magic is something you follow. You do not understand. You might’ve brought a memory to a body, gave it something as close to life as you could, but it was not real and true power. You did not give it life. It is like your dear Mr. Norrell’s project. She is but a Shade.”          

            Instantly, his hand rose. He closed his first and then laid his other hand on top of it. And then, in the most beautiful rush of magic Strange had ever seen, his eyes glowed such a divine gold. And then they faded and the rush of pureness was gone. Slowly, his palm opened to reveal a single strawberry. It was ripe, red, beautiful. It was life.

            “How did you do that?” Strange whispered. “Something from nothing! How did you do that?”

            “That, Mr. Strange, is nothing,” the creature said, “That is magic. I implore you to… learn the past. There is more there than you can ever hope to find. Magic is not about great feats, it is learning and accepting possibilities but also your limits.” The creature leaned back again and smiled at Strange, blue eyes flashing gold. “Magic is dangerous. Do what you know and study what you don’t. And do not, ever, my friend, trust someone you do not know.”

            “Merlin!”

            Strange sprang up, turning around to holler back to the Lord. There was a long pause as he faltered, his hand coming up to cup as mouth as the realization hit him.

            “Stolen identity,” he whispered to himself, and then whirled around to find the opposite crate void of any creature of magic.

            “Merlin,” he breathed to himself, “I met Merlin.”


End file.
